Never Gonna Be Alone
by Write-To-You
Summary: (Title from my Johnlock shipping song: Never Gonna be Alone by Nickleback) A collection of Johnlock friendship or romantic ficlets because they are amazing and Sherlock is my new favorite show.
1. Overwhelmed

**Author's Note: To be completely honest, I never saw myself shipping Johnlock. I really thought it would just be that ship that everyone who loved the gay-ships-that-make-no-sense-because-neither-of-the-parties-are-gay would ship.**

 **But no, I start watching Sherlock (the television series) and immediately it's all like** ** _bam_** **in my face. Like, where did you two come from, and how has my life been this good without you?**

 **Okay, so maybe not that drastic, but it was still pretty great.**

Sherlock Holmes had been working a case for 8 days straight.

You could tell.

He had dark bags under his eyes, his clothes were wrinkled, and he was continually snapping at John. Sherlock was normally an irritable jerk, but now he was especially and irritable jerk.

When he was on a case, he didn't sleep. He didn't eat. He didn't take care of himself.

It honestly drove John crazy, and not just because he was constantly the target of Sherlock's snapping and orders and accusations. John got worried, especially on a case this long. There was only so long someone could go without nourishment or sleep.

John knew for a fact that Sherlock could go 96 hours without it having any effects. By the time he got to 5 days with minimal food and no sleep, he started to get cranky and unfocused. 6 days brought around the staring off into space, lost of interest and inability to make a complete sentence 100% of the time. 7 days was straight up torture for both them.

8 days hadn't yet happened. Usually by this time Sherlock and John had finished up with their case and were checking off the last of the clues and suspects and getting their much needed rest.

Day 8, John found Sherlock sprawled in the middle of the floor of their flat.

4 things went through his mind, rapid fire. The first was that Sherlock was dead. The second was that he had been attacked, the third that he was conducting some sort of suitably strange experiment that needed him to lie down on the floor in an uncomfortable position with his eyes closed and not move. The fourth (the last, the correct guess), was then he was passed out from more natural health causes.

John ran over and knelt next to Sherlock's body. He checked for a pulse first- a little high, but steady- and then examined his head for signs of trauma. There was a small bump growing at the back of his skull, probably when when he hit his head landing on the floor, but nothing to show signs of being knocked out by an attacker. There was no blood, and no sign of any sort of injury other then the small bump on his head.

John let out a long sigh and sat back on his heels, "Why do you have to do this to yourself, Sherlock?" he muttered, leaning over and starting to slid his arm around Sherlock's back.

For such a skinny man, Sherlock was surprisingly heavy. It took John seven minutes and a whole lot of huffing and puffing to actually drag him off the floor and to his bed.

As usual, the bed was in disarray. There was a pillow on the floor and one that somehow ended up on the windowsill, and the coverlet was all twisted and half on the floor.

John let out a groan and lugged Sherlock up onto the mattress, straightening out his sheets and pulling them over the unconscious man. Then he located the pillows and arranged those, too.

After he had closed the curtains and left the room, he went to make a cup of tea. He had no idea how long Sherlock would be out for, or whether unconsciousness would give way to sleep after awhile. It was best that he stay in the apartment and wait.

It was only a half hour later that he heard a loud groan and the sound of heavy footsteps on the floor. John looked up from his tea and his book and frowned. "What are you doing up?"

"I've... got a case..." Sherlock mumbled, leaning against the doorframe, "Sleeping slows me down."

"You know what slows you down more?" John asked dryly, "Collapsing in the middle of the kitchen."

"I didn't collapse," Sherlock said with dignity, trying to straighten up and being overcome with dizziness, "I merely laid down for a moment to get my thoughts together."

"Uh huh," John said skeptically, taking Sherlock's arm, "Well, you are going to continue to lie down and get your thoughts together. On the bed. With your eyes closed."

"In other words you just want me to sleep," Sherlock grumped, though he allowed himself to get lead back over to his bed.

"Basically," John agreed, covering him with the blanket, "I'm going to bring you something to eat, and if you're asleep by the time I get back I'll just leave it on the bedside table."

"I don't-'

"You don't eat when you're on the case, I know. I know," John interrupted, already heading for the door, "But when you're on the case with _me_ , you do."

He walked out of the room and grabbed a box of crackers from the kitchen, along with half of a slightly brown banana.

When he returned to the bedroom, Sherlock was still awake, staring at the ceiling. It didn't look like he had moved since John left.

"You know why I can't sleep when I'm on the case?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"Because it slows you down, I know. You've told me before," John sighed as he put down the food down and opened up the box of crackers.

"No."

John's hands stilled and he frowned "Then why don't you sleep on the case?"

"I _can't_ ," Sherlock murmured, "I physically cannot. When I am on the case, my mind is constantly overanalyzing every little detail of every fact of every clue I find. It's why I can solve so many cases in the time that I do."

John raised an eyebrow, "I see."

"Usually, I can push my... observations to the back of my head. It's like white noise, there all the time and occasionally annoying but I can manage. But when I'm on the case I can't _do_ that, in case I come up with something and don't notice I've come up with it because I'm ignoring my brain."

John took a seat on the bed.

"When I'm on the case, trying to sleep with all of my thoughts inside my brain is like trying to sleep with a 4 trumpet band playing into my ear," Sherlock continued.

John pictured his knowledge of Sherlock's brain like a window. When he just met Sherlock, the window was dirty and locked, with shutters firmly shut over the glass. Over time those shutters had begun to raise, and the window had slowly cleared.

With Sherlock's explanation, an entire pane of Sherlock's window became sparklingly clear. It amazed John how quickly he could go from being almost completely in the dark to suddenly understanding so much about Sherlock.

"I... I never knew," John said softly, watching Sherlock's face, "I just thought that you were an overachiever that didn't know when to stop."

A faint smirk crossed Sherlock's face, "Well, I'm that, too," He said, only half-joking. He sent John a wink, "Can't let my reputation get ruined, now can we?"

"I promise, I won't tell a soul," John smiled, shaking his head. Then he grew serious and sent Sherlock a glare, "However, I will tell _everyone_ if you don't sleep."

Sherlock pulled a face, "I see. You're playing dirty."

"Not quite as dirty as I could," John grinned, patting Sherlock on the shoulder, "Try to tone down 4 trumpet orchestra and get some sleep, will you?" He asked.

Once he had left the room John crossed to the CD player in the corner and put in a CD. It was one of the many classical CDs that Sherlock loved and John quickly got bored off, but tonight it was just the thing they both needed.

As Mozart's 6 symphony spun itself into the air, both John and Sherlock fell asleep.

 **Author's Note: And there is my first Johnlock fic.**

 **You may have noticed how it's not really a romantic fic, exactly. I really like John and Sherlock's relationship that isn't necessarily all holding hands and kissing and such. I think that they are stronger then that emotionally, which is why I focus more on their friendship, almost. It's kind of hard to explain.**


	2. Puzzle Piece

**Author's Note: I think of ideas for fanfictions very oddly. I was sitting in a restaurant, looking at the intrusion that was the salad greens on my plate, and trying to figure out if they were worth eating or not.**

 **Then I was like, "Wait, do I even like this kind of lettuce?" And then I remembered this fanfiction or story or something I had read where there was one person who liked dark green lettuce and another person who liked light green lettuce and how it was awesome that they balanced each other out and could finished the salad.**

 **And** ** _then_** **I was like, "Hey, this could totally be Sherlock and John!" And so this story came into existence.**

 **(and while all of this was happening I was just sitting there staring at the lettuce in the middle of a restaurant)**

It sometimes amazing John Watson how two people could fit so perfectly together as he and Sherlock did.

Not so much physically. John was of slightly lower then average hight, with a stocky sort of muscular stature. Sherlock was long and tall and basically a beanpole. Their hands were two completely different sizes, fingers on one hand long, fingers on the other short and calloused.

But ignoring their physical mishmash-ness, the two of them fit together like two halves of a broken cup.

John hadn't even noticed it at first. Sherlock probably had, with his insanely crazy observational skills, but it wasn't terribly noticeable if you weren't looking.

It started with sharing a flat. John was the kind of person that like things tidy and liked to be the one to clean them and put them away. Sherlock didn't care if he was slogging through ankle deep seas of trash or if he was living in a completely empty apartment. He probably didn't even notice the state of his flat half the time. So John did all the cleaning and got to organize things (for the most part, anyway) the way he liked them, and they were both perfectly fine with that.

The next thing that John noticed was errands. He liked going out, and though running errands could be a bit of a pain at times (especially when he was making three trips to the grocery store a day because Sherlock kept remember things that he "needed"), he wouldn't have wanted anyone else to do it. Sherlock always somehow forgot something of importance and came home with a bunch of junk that mostly just molded in the fridge until John had the motivation to throw it out. Besides, anytime someone else ran some any of errand John would constantly micromanage it until it drove the person completely nuts.

Next came food. This one was one that John noticed one night when he and Sherlock were eating at a new vegetarian restaurant down the road.

Going to the restaurant was a kind gesture on Sherlock's part, considering his love for meat. But he knew that John didn't love the idea of eating animals (he wasn't a vegetarian, exactly, it just made him uncomfortable), so he gave in and joined him in eating a salad.

That was when John found out that Sherlock only ate light green lettuce.

"Have at it," he offered, passing Sherlock his starter plate, "I'm not a fan of light green lettuce. Dark green's really more my thing."

"Is that so?" Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrow, "Then have mine."

"No, it's fine, I won't be hungry-"

"I don't like it."

John stopped talking and mirrored Sherlock's eyebrow, "Well," he murmured, "That works out perfectly, now doesn't it?"

"Hmm..." was all Sherlock responded, before both of them went back to their eating.

That "hmm" was murmured so ambiguously that John spent the next four hours trying to figure out what he meant.

John noticed hugging next. Sherlock and John hugged occasionally- all friends do (though whether they were actually _friends_ or just old-fashioned lovers he really wasn't sure), and though their bodies didn't exactly mold together like to pieces of a well made puzzle, it was a pleasant hug. John was the kind of person that always liked putting his arms under, and Sherlock put his arms over, so there were no confusing arm placements or uncomfortable re-adjusting.

With the few other people he had hugged in his life, it didn't work like that. All the girls he hugged also like putting their arms under, and the few men on his military force he had hugged were more of the one-arm-above, one-arm-below types.

John discovered this after a four day long case. Sherlock hadn't been able to solve the puzzle in time and seven people had died because of it. He spent the next day berating himself, until John decided to do something about it.

"I'm just so _stupid_ ," Sherlock grumbled, not for the first time, "I can't believe I didn't see the pieces of evidence that were just staring me in the face!"

"Sherlock, you made a mistake," John sighed, running his hand over the back of his neck, "You caught the guy in the end; that's what matters."

"What matters is that those seven people are _dead_ , and it's my fault. If I had just looked a little harder... concentrated a little more-"

"Enough, okay?" John snapped. He was tired and irritable and upset, and he just wanted to get some rest, "What's done is done and there's no use moping over it."

It took his a full five minutes to realize that Sherlock was crying.

Never before had he seen Sherlock cry. Sherlock was always impassive- he was a self named highly-functioning-sociopath. He just didn't _get_ emotions.

But as John watched, Sherlock got up and walked into the kitchen. He planted his hands on the messy table; his head hung down; and his shoulders began to shake with such silent sobs that at first John thought he was laughing.

He walked over to the kitchen, laying and hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock shuddered, and before John knew what he was doing he had turned the other man around and hugged him tightly.

Sherlock let out a shaky breath, his arms falling into place around John's shoulders while John's wrapped around his back. It was probably the most comfortable hug that John had ever experienced.

So maybe, along with everything else, their bodies fit together after all.

 **Author's Note: If you thought that idea source was random, you should see how I think of song titles... :D**

 **TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT ME TO WRITE! Keep in mind that I haven't watched the entire series yet and while I have (unfortunately) gotten a couple of spoilers from fanfiction, youtube, and my innate ability to connect the dots between the two, I don't know all of what happens.**


	3. Trust (The Great Game Spoilers)

**Author's Note: WEEEELL so I watched The Great Game and as you can probably imagine I was FREAKING OUT when Sherlock ripped the bomb off of John's back and was like, "Alright? ARE YOU ALRIGHT?!"**

 **Like seriously- Every episode: More inspiration. I honestly don't know how they do it.**

Moriarty left John and Sherlock in the silence of the pool.

As soon as he was sure he was gone, Sherlock dove towards John and began to rip the bomb off of his chest. His fingers trembling madly as they fought with the catch.

"Alright?" his words weren't quite working.

John didn't answer.

" _Are you alright?!_ " Sherlock bellowed, finally undoing the clasp and starting to tear the whole bundle of bomb and coat off of John's chest.

"Fine! Fine. Sher-Sherlock! I'm fine," John insisted, letting out a breath as Sherlock flung the bomb-jacket forcefully across the pool floor.

Both of them let out long sighs of relief. Sherlock darted towards the door, hoping that Moriarty might still be there.

He wasn't.

Sherlock wandered back into the pool room in time to see John's legs give out. He sagged against the wall, falling to an awkward crouch and letting his head fall back against the wood behind him.

Sherlock paced frantically up and down the pool side, his entire body on edge from what had just happened.

"What you- the thing you did, yes. Yes. It was... good," Sherlock muttered, gesturing vaguely to his flatmate. His mind wasn't connecting well to either his vocal chords or his tongue, and everything was coming out jumbled and incomplete.

Sherlock reached up, vigorously rubbing the gun against the back of his head.

"You alright?" John asked quietly from the floor, eyeing him.

"Yes, yes, fine," Sherlock took a calming breath, dropping the gun.

"Good thing no one was here to see that," John commented out of the blue.

"What?"

"You ripping my clothes off of me in a darkened pool area," John snorted, "People might talk."

Sherlock couldn't help the grin that shot over his face, "They do nothing else."

Both of them started to laugh, and John relaxed onto the floor, his legs stretching out in front of him. His hands were trembling, clasped in his lap, and he was beginning to shiver.

He was most likely going into shock, but John was too relieved to be worried about it.

"When you walked in," Sherlock muttered, "With those bombs strapped to you, I couldn't- I couldn't think straight. I couldn't even move."

"Yeah," John murmured, "Neither could I."

"And then you started talking, and for the shortest of moments- I thought it was you," Sherlock shook his head, "I can't believe I even thought it for half a second, but I thought that _you_ were Moriarty."

John raised his eyebrow.

"But that wouldn't have made any sense, and besides-" here Sherlock broke off and locked eyes with John, "I- I trust you."

Warmth flooded John's chest. Trust wasn't something he had ever expected from Sherlock- but he never really _did_ expect anything from Sherlock, except for his brilliance.

He felt his throat tighten in an undignified way and cleared it, "Thanks, Sherlock. That- That means a lot."

John started to shiver harder, balling up his knees. He felt completely exhausted.

Before he could say a word, Sherlock had stripped off his suit coat and laid it over John's shoulders. He helped him stand up with an arm at his elbow, "Come on. Let's get you home."

John let out a groan, eyeing the bomb-jacket lying crumpled in the corner, "Should we just leave it there? Is it safe?"

Sherlock barely spared it a glance, "Leave it. I want it out of my sight."

John raised his eyebrow but didn't comment, relaxing into Sherlock's side as the two of them stumbled out of the pool room.

"Never do that again."

"Pardon?" John asked with a frown.

"Get kidnapped," Sherlock huffed, "Get a bomb strapped to your chest. Be willing to die for me."

John nudged him, "It's gonna happen again."

"I know," Sherlock grumbled, squeezing him in one could easily be a one-armed hug, "Doesn't mean I'm gonna like it."

 **Author's Note: Surprisingly, I didn't like that one as much as my other two.**

 **Well, I've got a few more for this episode coming soon, and hopefully they turn out better :)**

 **Heh, would you guys believe that I wrote that entire cannon first bit by heart? XD I guess that just shows how many times I watched that scene.**


	4. Explosion (TGG Spoilers)

**Author's Note: TGG stands for The Great Game, by the way.**

 **Did anyone else** ** _loooooove_** **when John got all freaked out about the explosion at his house and ran up the stairs yelling "Sherlock!"**

 **Then, of course, he got to his room and found Sherlock was calmly playing his violin and having a conversation with Mycroft.**

 **Well, for this I'm deleting Mycroft from the scene and some... different things happen.**

John was stretched out on Sarah's couch when he caught sight of the news. There had been an explosion. A big one, from the looks of it.

But that's not what caught John's eye.

The explosion was at _his_ apartment.

 _Sherlock_.

John jolted up from the couch, yelled a quick excuse or a goodbye or whatever came out of his mouth to Sarah, and sprinted out the door.

It didn't take him long to get to his apartment, and when he did he pushed through the thick throng of people standing outside. He bypassed the guard, who didn't try very hard to stop him (probably recognized him), and shoved open the door.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, sprinting up the singed stairs as fast as he could. " _Sherlock_!"

He felt panic entering his chest when there was no response, and pushed himself to climb even faster.

John finally reached 221B and threw the door open so hard it banged against the wall.

"Sherlo-"

He stopped mid-sentence, because there was Sherlock, sitting peacefully in a chair and holding a violin.

John let out a colossal sigh of relief and slumped over to a corner, "There was an explosion," he muttered, trying to explain himself.

Sherlock glanced vaguely in the direction of the window, "Yes. I suppose their was."

"And you didn't think to send me a text to let me know you were alright?" John demanded, frustrated, "I ran all the way from Sarah's without even giving her a proper reason!"

"So you were at Sarah's, were you?"

John spluttered something unintelligible and then calmed himself enough to say, " _Yes_ , I was at Sarah's, trying to have some shred of a normal dating life. Don't see why you'd care, though, considering you didn't even send me a bloody text saying 'fine' or, 'don't worry' or, 'don't bother leaving your girlfriend John because I'm alright'."

He stopped, out of breath.

"Mmm," Sherlock murmured, "Yes, those would be nice things for someone to do."

He laid his bow on the violin and played a few hard, ear-achingly sharp notes with vehemence.

John raised his eyebrows and turned his attention away from his childlike flatmate. He looked around their flat with a sigh. The windows had been completely blown in by the explosion, and the floor, walls and furniture in the surrounding area were covered with debris, soot and small shards of glass. It would take some serious action with a vacuum and a small army of dust rags to clean the mess up.

Sherlock abruptly set down his violin and bounced to his feet. He kicked his char, sending it rocking back and forth on creaking hinges.

"What was that for?" John asked in exasperation.

"Bored," Sherlock responded, both of them moving to stand in the middle of the living room, "The explosion was from a gas leak. Nothing to investigate. Nothing exciting. Bored, bored, _bored_."

As if tacking a visual period to the end of his sentence, Sherlock stomped his foot hard on the floor.

A creaking sound filled the room, followed by the noise of splintering wood, and before either of them knew what was happened the floor had completely caved in.

John let out a yell, his arm shooting out to grab part of the floor that was still remaining. He dangled over the hole, large splinters from the broken slab digging into his palm, making his grip slippery with blood.

"Sherlock!" John yelled for the second time that day, peering down into the haze of settling dust and debris. He could see his flatmate anywhere, but he didn't have much of a vision span with the way he was positioned, and it would have been hard to see through the dust anyway.

His entire hand throbbed, and John struggled to keep his grip on the board, "Sherlock, answer me!"

He heard a faint, muffled, "John?" and he heaved a sigh of relief.

"Where are you?"

"The floor gave out..."

"Yes, I know!" John felt his grip slip and frantically reached up with his other hand. He couldn't seem to get a good purchase on the wood; his arms beginning to tremble violently, "I'm hanging from the- well, the floor. Where are you?"

"The floor gave out..." Sherlock repeated, his voice even quieter then before, "I think I'm... under it."

At least they were making progress, "Okay, Sherlock," John said, trying to sound calm and in control, "I'm going to see if I can drop down from the, uh, the floor, and dig you out, alright?"

"Careful, John," He thought he heard, before his finally released his hold on the slab of wood and dropped to the ground.

He hit the ground hard and stumbled foreword, bracing himself on the floor with his knees and nearly crying out in pain as all of his splinters were shoved farther in.

Gritting his teeth, John straightened on the precarious balance of floor boards, insulation and other debris from the explosion, "Talk to me, Sherlock. Tell me where you are."

"Boards," Came Sherlock's muffled voice. John followed it, "Dust in my nose. My arm is free."

"Wave it," John commanded.

He heard the sound of shifting wood and scanned through the haze of dust.

"I see you," John said, shutting his eyes briefly in relief and increasing his pace towards Sherlock, "I'm coming. Keep waving."

He stumbled over the last few boards and fell to his knees beside the dirt covered black sleeve of Sherlock's coat. John yanked frantically at the boards covering Sherlock's body, uncovering his head and chest as fast as possible and then moving on to his legs.

Sherlock let out a groan as the filtered light hit his eyes and sat up slowly, rubbing at his chest.

"Anything broken?" John asked, pressed his fingers along Sherlock's ribs.

"No."

"Bruised rib, though," John reported, "Probably more then one. Legs alright? Head?"

Sherlock reached up and touched his mass of dust covered black curls. His fingers came away stained red and John's jaw tightened.

"I think..." Sherlock muttered, blinked slowly, "That something might have hit my head."

"Got that, somehow," John agreed. He pressed his fingers lightly against the spot on Sherlock's head, feeling a large bump swelling under his fingertips. Sherlock winced, trying to bat his hand away, "Come on, Sherlock. Let me take a look."

Sherlock grumbled, "I'm fine," he said gruffly, "Just a bump."

"I can't see in this light," John muttered, ignoring him, "We need to figure out how to get out of here."

The dust had finally started to settle, so John sat back on his heels and took a look around. They were in the flat below them, one of the ones that had blown up. The wall and windows had been completely blasted apart, and the whole room was a mess off broken boards and pieces of furniture.

"Did everyone get out okay?" John asked, searching his brain to try and figure out who even lived below them.

Sherlock shrugged, "I didn't ask."

John raised his eyebrow, "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Hmm?"

"I didn't know it was possible for you not to know something," John smirked, resisting the urge to laugh as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Very funny," Sherlock muttered, "Now let's get out of here before I get permanent damage from the dust in my lungs."

John snickered, reaching down an arm to help Sherlock up. Sherlock stumbled to his feet, swayed, steadied himself on John's shoulder, and then joined him in a trek across the uneven floor.

Sherlock squinted around, his face contorting into his "deducing expression"- one that John had come to recognize after months of seeing it pass his flatmate's face. "Door should be over there. Each room is a mirror image to the one above it, and our door is 4 steps this way."

He set off, wobbling a little on his feet, and John scrambled to follow.

"Move these boards and there should be a way to get to the hallway, and then the stairs. We will be able to get out by way of the stairs because you were able to get to our room fine. The way the explosion hit means that if the stairs are structurally sound then the door leading to them will be. Doors frames are some of the sturdiest places in houses-"

"Which is why you're supposed to stand underneath them during an earthquake," John added.

"Exactly," Sherlock agreed with a crisp nod, "Now, whether or not the hallway with be alright on this floor I'm not sure."

They had reached the area where Sherlock seemed to think the doorway had once been. John reached over and began to pull them away.

"Careful," Sherlock said, "Not only could moving the boards shake the already precarious balance of building, but you don't want to hurt your hand more then it is. Splinters aren't hard to aggravate."

John stopped with his hand on a piece of debris, "How did you know that I had splinters?"

"It was fairly obvious," Sherlock shrugged, "You always use your right hand to check for head injuries, and you used your left when you checked up on me. You could have just hurt your hand jumping down from where you were hanging but there were no noises except of you landing and a gasp when your hands hit the floor. Not only that, but you were hanging from a broken board, and the angle you were standing when you fell would mean you were grasping the end- the splintered part."

John shook his head slowly, "Brilliant."

Sherlock looked pleased, but it didn't last long. The whole building shuddered, and he glanced around, "The explosion must have weakened the building's supports," he muttered, "We don't have much time."

"Great," John said, gritting his teeth. He began to quickly yank away boards, and it didn't take Sherlock long to join him. Soon, there was a big enough whole in the debris for them to squeeze through.

They tumbled out into the hallway, the carpet ripped and covered in dust. John let out a sigh of relief, but he was quickly urged to his feet by Sherlock as the building trembled again.

"Move!" Sherlock yelled, and the two of them ran for the stairs.

They sprinted down a few steps at a time and broke out of the apartment building just as the entire two bottom floors crumbled to nothing.

Gasps and murmured traveled around the crowd and Sherlock and John were grabbed away from the unstable building and dragged behind the security tape. Both of them stumbled to a stop, heaving for breath.

"You alright?" John gasped, hands on his knees as he sucked in air.

"Quite," Sherlock answered, straitening up and batting off the paramedic that had started to approach him, "You?"

John inspected his hand. There were a few larger splinters that were causing small red rivulets of blood to run down his hand, but most of the damage was tiny flecks of wood buried in his skin.

Sherlock grabbed his hand before he had time to hide it and flattened it out. He inspected it closely, and waved the paramedic back over, "His hand needs attention. Now."

John rolled his eyes, "Sherlock, I'm a doctor. I can take care of it."

"Nobody wants to pull out their own splinters," said Sherlock, sounding almost petulant.

John's mouth twisted, "Fine. Then, miss, could you send someone over to look at his head?"

Sherlock glared at him, but the paramedic nodded, "I'll take a look at him after I clean up your hand."

"Thank you."

John let himself be dragged off to the emergency vehicle that was set up on the side of the road. The paramedic pulled the splinters carefully out of his palm and wrapped it. John would never admit it afterword, but he _might_ had grabbed hold of Sherlock's hand and squeezed so hard Sherlock lost circulation in his fingers.

After, John stood up and all but shoved Sherlock toward the paramedic, who checked for a concussion and any other head injuries before handing Sherlock an ice pack and clearing him, "Good to go."

"You're ribs-" John started, but Sherlock gave him an imploring look.

"You can look at them," he said, "You're a doctor. I'd rather you."

John's lips twitched with a pleased smile, but all he did was nod, "We're going to have to find a place to stay."

Sherlock raised both his eyebrows and started to grin. John felt suddenly uncomfortable. That was his 'I've got a plan that you are probably not going to like but is completely genius' look.

25 minutes later, Sarah was opening up her door with a tolerant, very forced smile.

"Thank you so much," John said for the eight time.

Sarah sighed, smiling a little more naturally at him, "No problem-"

"Of course it's no problem; you've got a perfectly large flat and we're homeless," Sherlock cut her off, pushing rudely into her apartment and leaving poor Sarah to grit her teeth and follow.

She left them alone in the living room in no time, probably trying to avoid Sherlock as much as humanly possible.

"Let me take a look." John said.

"Hmm?" Sherlock mumbled questioningly, as if he already didn't know what John was talking about.

John rolled his eyes, "At your ribs."

"Right," Sherlock gave him a quick smile, "They're fine."

"Uh huh. Then let me look."

Reluctantly, Sherlock took a seat on the couch and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. John peered at the mass of slowly appearing bruises.

"Ouch."

Sherlock shrugged.

John leaned foreword and began to gently press all over Sherlock's chest and ribs, trying to ignored Sherlock gritting his teeth and tensing every time John touched him.

He sat back after only a few minutes, "You should be fine with some rest. Just take it easy."

"I told you," Sherlock grumbled.

They were silent for a few moments, exhausted from their morning and everything that had just gone on.

Then Sherlock looked over at John with a sly grin, "Good thing I didn't text you, then."

"What?"

"You never would have shown up," Sherlock shrugged, "Never would have pulled me out of the wreckage."

"Don't make a habit of getting buried under wreckage," was all John could come up with as a rejoinder, because he was completely right.

"Guess I'll get into the habit of making you run from your girlfriends house whenever our house explodes."

John just groaned.

 **Author's Note: YAY! Longest drabble in this series so far!**


	5. Not-So-Sociopath (TGG Spoilers)

**Author's Note: In case you didn't catch in the last chapter, TGG stands for The Great Game :)**

 **This takes place in a world where the whole pool scene didn't happen and Sherlock solved all of Moriarty's cases. It's after all of that.**

Even after watching Sherlock solve insanely difficult cases under loads of presser; even after he saved countless lives; even after he bested Moriarty at his own game, at least for the most part, John was still disappointed.

Not in Sherlock's talent. Of that he had complete faith in. Sherlock was a legitimate genius, and it never stopped amazing John to watch how well he worked under pressure with problems that looked so much like they didn't have an answer that they didn't even seem like problems.

But with everything that had happened that day, with all the _good_ that Sherlock had done, John couldn't stop thinking about that one woman.

One poor, blind old woman, covered with bombs. One that had lost her life in trying to describe Moriarty. One that Sherlock seemed to have forgotten about.

If Sherlock had been at all remorseful, John wasn't even sure if he would be so upset. But Sherlock didn't even seem bothered. He went about his evening with a straight face and not even a mention of the person who had died under his watch.

Finally, John couldn't bear it any longer.

"Look, do you even care?"

Sherlock paused, halfway to the kitchen to get some more tea. John wasn't any "consulting detective", but he knew Sherlock well enough to tell a few things about what was going through his head. His shoulders were tight, meaning that he wanted to get out of the conversation as soon as possible. His fingers were very straight down by his sides, so John knew that he realized _exactly_ what his flatmate was talking about, even though the question had been out of the blue. And his back was still turned, even as silence fell over the room, which meant there was a distinct possibility that Sherlock just wouldn't answer the question.

That last hypothesis turned out to be wrong, as Sherlock slowly turned on one foot. "Probably not. Be more specific."

John's jaw clenched. He wasn't in the mood for this. "You know what I'm talking about, Sherlock. The woman. The one who died. The one you seem to have completely forgotten about."

It was Sherlock's turn for his jaw to tighten. "You don't know what you're talking about, John."

John huffed, annoyed. "Yeah, well, maybe not. Or maybe you _are_ just a sociopath."

Hurt flashed across Sherlock's face. John was surprised- usually his angry comments had no visual effect on his flatmate.

That seemed not to be the case today as Sherlock stormed past John and over to the window, glaring outside at the layout of the city street.

"Look, I get that you're not a maudlin type of person or anything but the least you could do is acknowledge that it happened," John said after a long silence filled the room.

"Right. Of course," Sherlock snapped. "So that I can seem normal and you can feel better about yourself. Pitying the dead won't bring them back, John. Nothing will."

"No, but-" John broke off, growling impatiently at his inability to express himself. "Sometimes it's easier on people who feel things to be able to be with other people who feel things," he let out a groan and rubbed his forehead. "I don't know. Forget it."

Sherlock's shoulders slumped. "I feel things, John," he murmured. "I with I didn't but I do. I didn't used to. And then you came along with your stupid hero complex and every death that happened on my watch was suddenly my fault-"

"That's not what I'm saying-"

"No, it is." Sherlock spun around, eyes red and angry. "I could have saved her. I didn't. It was my fault."

"No, it wasn't!" John argued, now finding himself _defending_ Sherlock's humanity instead of attacking it. "You didn't put those bombs on her chest. You didn't press the trigger. You didn't start talking about things you weren't supposed to."

Suddenly, Sherlock covered his eyes with his hand on sank onto the couch. "How could I not save her, John?" he cried. "I solved the puzzle. I played the game. And she- she was just an old woman. She probably had kids. She probably had _grandchildren_."

John looked at him, alarmed. He had never seen Sherlock cry before, not real tears, especially about a case. He stepped over to the couch and put his arms around Sherlock's shoulder, rubbing his back.

Sherlock's dark mass of curls tickled John's skin as Sherlock buried his face in John's shoulder, trembling.

"Shhh..." John soothed. "It's going to be alright."

"Not for her it's not," Sherlock said, voice cracking. "I couldn't save her."

"You did everything you could," John whispered, combing a hand through Sherlock's hair. "You said it yourself: You solved the puzzle. You figured out the case."

"Yes, but-"

"Shh," John said again, "It's okay. It's okay."

He felt Sherlock relax a little against his chest and John shut his eyes.

"Well," he said finally, hoping Sherlock hadn't fallen asleep. "I guess you're not such a sociopath after all."

Sherlock huffed, but then he pressed himself closer to John "No. I guess not."

 **Author's Note: AAAh I LOVE THEM!**

 **It's really using all of my self-control not to go and watch every single Sherlock clip on youtube. I'm just** ** _dying_** **for more John/Sherlock!**


	6. Freak

**Author's Note: It bugs me when Sally calls Sherlock a "Freak", especially when no one defends him. I feel like it would be the kind of thing would bug John too, even if he never says anything about it.**

If John Watson was sure of one thing, it was that Sherlock Holmes was not a freak.

He may have been strange. He may have been unfeeling and a "high functioning sociopath." He might have even been a little bit crazy (anyone with a love for murders was a little bit crazy). But he was _not_ a freak.

He was a man with a huge brain and carefully managed emotions.

John, however, was not. So when Sally Donovan continued to call Sherlock a freak _every time she saw him_ , it got to him. It may have become a joke for her, but John could tell that it hurt Sherlock, just a little bit.

It seemed that John was the only one who could see that. Lestrade just shrugged it off when John mentioned it to him one evening as they were watching Sherlock work a crime scene.

"He's got a think skin. Don't even know if he hears her," Lestrade said in his matter-of-fact way. "And besides, who cares what Sally Donovan says?"

John laughed softly, watching Sherlock pace around the body and tangle his fingers in his hair in concentration. He loved watching Sherlock work.

Later that week, after Sherlock had worked for five days straight attempting to catch a new serial killer, the two of them found themselves back at the station.

The murderer was shoved down the hallway by two vigilant cops. As he went he turned and glared at Sherlock, "You all think I'm a freak? Yeah? Well what about the man who stopped me? He somehow knew exactly how I was going to think. But you're not dragging him off to rot in a jail cell."

John glared back at him angrily, but Sherlock only raised his eyebrow, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

Sally nodded from where she was leaning against the wall, "Been saying it all along," she muttered under her breath, "Freak."

John quickly glanced at Sherlock. His eyebrows moved upward the tiniest of bits and his lips twitched slightly to the side. To most people, it would look like he hadn't even heard. John, however, knew he had.

"Do you mind?" he snapped, sending a glare similar to the one he had sent the serial killer over in Sally's direction.

Sherlock sighed, "John, you really don't need-"

John waved him off, "No, seriously. This man just caught you a serial killer. He just saved _lives_. And you're _still_ calling him a freak, just because he can think like one? He has this giant, incredible brain, but instead of using it for his own gain he's using it to save people and put criminals behind bars. The least you could do is say thanks every once and awhile. But no, you insist on calling him a freak! On calling him a psychopath! I know you people think he doesn't have emotions but I think even the coldest person would get sick of that kind of treatment. I'm sick of it and you aren't even calling me names!"

John let out a lung full of air, a little out of breath. His face was burning; either from anger or embarrassment (because nearly everyone in the precinct was looking at him at this point) he wasn't sure.

Most of the people in the room looked shocked. Sally looked flat out dumbstruck, and maybe even a little bit guilty. Lestrade was edging on impressed and Sherlock's face was completely unreadable, even to John.

John threw up his hands and walked out the the precinct as fast as he could. He didn't check to see if Sherlock was following him- even if he wasn't John needed out of that suddenly claustrophobic building as soon as possible.

He was furious with himself. John didn't have much of a hot temper; Sherlock had enough mood swings for both of them. But something today had just set him off. He had embarrassed himself in front of everyone inside the precinct, just because of some stupid comment that Sally probably hadn't even meant.

John wondered what Sherlock was going to say. He might just be _Sherlock_ and not say anything at all, or he might be _Sherlock_ and confront John about it. It could really go both ways.

The crisp winter air hit John's cheeks as he set off down the street. Usually he would catch a cab, but he needed the walk and 221 Baker Street wasn't far.

He heard quick footsteps behind him, and then Sherlock came into view. He was jogging a little to keep up with John and to overcome the head start John had had leaving the precinct.

"John! John, wait up just a moment."

John slowed his pace a little and stuffed his hands in his pockets, hunching his shoulders against the cold, "Look, back there... I shouldn't have said those things."

"No, no," Sherlock shook his head, "It was rather sweet, actually. I was admittedly a bit taken aback, but I'm not used to people defending my feelings."

He offered John his usual half-smirk-half-smile, but John could tell that he was actually more touched then he was letting on.

Well. That made his own actions seem just a little more okay, then. John nodded, smiling himself, "Anytime, Sherlock."

Sherlock grinned and nudged him, "I'll hold you to that."

 **Author's Note: I CANNOT STOP HAVING IDEAS FOR THESE FANFICTIONS! IT'S AMAAAAZING!**


	7. Blackout

**Author's Note: This is not actually about a power outage. Surprise!**

 **Haha, no. This was an idea I had for a kidnapping/hurt/comfort fic, because as a Johnlock writer it is my sworn duty to write one of those.**

 **This** ** _will_** **turn into a part 1 and 2 kind of thing. Just to warn you. But part 2 will be up tomorrow. (you know me and my history with long chapters. AKA my hate of them and you guys' love of them. I REALLY JUST DON'T GET WHY YOU LIKE THEM! They make me antsy XD)**

 ** _PLEASE NOTE: There are no spoilers for any particular episode, but you need to know who Moriarty is._**

John's head was throbbing when he came to. He was in a dark room, which was actually a relief, at least at the moment.

His body felt numb and fuzzy, like it hadn't quite woken up by the time his brain decided to. His wrists were bound by metal cuffs, stuck together and hanging from a wall, but that was about all he could figure out.

John couldn't remember a thing. What had happened, where he was, even what going on. After about five minutes, a few off the larger, broader details came filtering back.

Sherlock and John had been working on a case. Sherlock was convinced it was Moriarty behind it all, and it was putting him on edge. John had to agree- it seemed like Moriarty's style to do something that included puzzles and time limits and bombs.

The two of them—well, Sherlock, really— had just gotten to the bottom of the case. They were getting out of a cab, running down the street towards the precinct to inform Lestrade and-

After that... everything went fuzzy.

John frowned. If Sherlock had been with him when he blacked out... where was he now?

"S'lock?" John mumbled into the darkness, his tongue feeling heavy and stuck in his mouth. He suddenly realized how thirsty he was. "Sherlock?"

"John?"

John let out a breath of relief he didn't realize he had inhaled.

"John, is that you?"

"Yes, yes it's me," John breathed, squinting in the dark to try and locate the source of Sherlock's voice. "Do you remember what happened?"

"We were getting out of the cab," Sherlock said slowly. "And then... I think we were attacked. Drugged."

John nodded; that sounded about right. "Did you see who attacked us?"

"No," Sherlock said, sounding frustrated. "Where are you?"

"I'm chained to the wall," John reported, pulling at his cuffs. His hands were starting to feel puffy from lack of blood. "Where are you?"

"Chained to the wall," Sherlock parroted. "Half and inch thick cuffs, foot long chain sealed straight into the cement. You need two small keys to unlock the cuffs, but the locks are on either side of my wrists, making them impossible to pick."

"Exactly how long have you been conscious?" John asked, raising his eyebrow.

"Approximately 32 seconds."

John shook his head in wonder. Sherlock never failed to amaze him.

"How long should I give you to figure out our escape plan?" he asked with a smirk, only half joking.

"Hmm... how about 2 minutes?"

"Wow, we must be really trapped."

"Very funny, John," John could almost hear Sherlock's eye roll from across the room. "I'm being serious. I don't think I can get out of these cuffs. Without my hands free and an ability to move there's not much else I can do."

John let out a heavy sigh, but before he could respond light suddenly flooded into the small prison cell.

After the glare in John's eyes faded so that he could see again, he took a quick look around. There wasn't much to see: Sherlock hanging against the wall, half on his feet and blinking against the light. The rest of the room was empty and relatively small. If Sherlock and John both stretched out their legs their feet would probably touch.

John turned his gaze back to the person in the doorway. His mouth went dry.

"Moriarty," Sherlock growled.

"Thaaaaat's me!" Moriarty chirped, looking as put together and annoying as ever. "Did you miss me?"

"No," John groaned. "Not at all."

"I wasn't asking you," Moriarty said, smiling condescendingly at John before turning his gaze back to the object of his obsession. "Sherlock Holmes. I've gotten you back in my clutches once again. Don't worry- I won't be gentle."

Ignoring the fact that that didn't make any sense, Sherlock glared Moriarty down. "Let us go, and then we can talk."

"Us? Or do you mean John?" Moriarty asked playfully. "Because if I know you at all—Which I most certainly do— you're about to play the 'your problem is with me, not John' card."

Sherlock grit his teeth. John almost could have laughed. He couldn't have said it better himself.

"No, but the thing is," Moriarty continued. "My deal _is_ with John. It's with both of you. You see, I'm running a bit of an experiment. Keeps me from blowing anyone up, you know." He gave them both a flirtatious grin. "I need you two to finish up my research."

"What are you going to do to us?" John asked, trying to keep the nerves out of his voice. "Bisect us or something?"

"Oh, no no no," Moriarty said, looking aghast. "No, this is isn't a _physical_ experiment. It's a physiological experiment. I would like to know a bit more about how far people with normal emotions are willing to go for each other."

"And you picked _me_ to run this experiment?" Sherlock asked incredulously, looking vaguely amused.

"Oh no," Moriarty shook his head solemnly. "I picked John."

John felt his blood go cold. Moriarty walked over to him and careful unlocked his cuffs. Before John could do anything he had whipped out a gun and held it in front of John's head. "Ah ah ah. No moving, Mr. Watson."

John let out a soft growl but obeyed.

"Now, Sherlock, here's how it's going to go," Moriarty explained, as if talking to a small, dumb, child. "I'm going to torture you both. Badly. It's definitely going to hurt." He smiled happily. "And when one of you blacks out, the other one dies."

"How is this an experiment to test how far people will go for each other?" Sherlock growled.

"Becaaaaaause..." Moriarty explained. "Because I know exactly how much I need to torture you so that you are just on the brink of consciousness. So that you _want_ to pass out. And I will see how both of you handle the situation. John, with his normal human emotions and tolerance, and you, Sherlock Holmes, who only cares for two people in the world."

"Two?" Sherlock asked, surprised.

Moriarty smiled. "You think I don't know about Mrs. Hudson?"

Sherlock's face when dead cold with rage and he lunged foreword. "If you touch her-"

"Now now." Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Calm yourself. I'm not going to hurt your landlady. That's why I kidnapped John."

He turned and began to drag John out of the room. Sherlock stumbled to his feet, "Where are you taking him? Moriarty! Moriarty answer me! John! _Joh-I_ "

The door slammed shut behind Moriarty and John, blocking off the last of Sherlock's cries.

"My goodness," Moriarty commented as he lead John down the hallway, gun still at his temple. "He really _does_ care about you."

"I wouldn't go that far," John mumbled. "You don't see him at home."

"Oh yes, but you do," Moriarty said. "Which really just proves my point."

John rolled his eyes, not even bothering to deny once again that he and Sherlock were a couple. Was it even true anymore? Eh. Probably not.

It wasn't long before Moriarty was strapping John to a long, cold metal surgical table. He cuffed his wrists and ankles and put a band around his head. John wasn't going anywhere.

Pretty soon, Sherlock was being lead into the room in the same fashion. His eyes darkened when he saw John stuck on the table, but Moriarty didn't give him time to do anything else before strapping him down in the same way.

The he left the room without another word, humming to himself.

"Sherlock," John said softly. "If I black out... I-"

"Don't, John," Sherlock cut him off. "You're the strongest person I know. If anyone can resist torture, it's you."

"Yes, but-"

"Shh," Sherlock said softly, struggling to turn his head with the strap around it. "We're going to get out of here. Nobody is going to die."

John nodded, swallowing thickly. His body was tingling all over with dread and adrenaline, and he braced himself for whatever was about to happen.

What happened was a startling bolt of electricity shot through the table he was lying on and hit John full force.

His back arched, neck jarring against the strap holding it his head down. Everything was white noise- his ears, his eyes, his body. He thought he heard Sherlock yell his name. Someone was screaming.

It was probably him.

After what felt like hours, the electricity faded. John sagged back against the table, breathing heavily. His vision was tingling, fading-

 _No._

 _John Watson, you will stay awake if it's the last thing you do_.

John jerked his eyes open again, gasping for breath.

"John!" Sherlock yelled, "John, are you alright?"

John groaned loudly, every part of him aching. "Yeah," he lied. "I'm okay-"

He was cut off but the sound of more electricity. Except this time it wasn't coming through John's table.

It was coming through Sherlock's.

Sherlock let out a groan through his teeth, slamming his arm as best he could against the table.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, straining against his bonds. "Moriarty, stop! Please, stop! Don't hurt him, just do it to me; please, just do it to-"

More electricity shot through the table and John screamed again, everything going back to white noise.

That was how it was, more or less, for the next hour. By the time Moriarty unstrapped John and Sherlock, John was having a hard time concentrating on anything that was going on.

Objects were blurring around him. Sounds were fraying as they reached his ears. His hands felt numb and he couldn't quite feel his tongue.

Moriarty shoved the two of them down another hallway at gunpoint, and let them into a surprisingly luxurious room. It was a pristine white, all of it, with cushioned couches and a thick rug.

John's legs gave out as he stepped through the doorway and Sherlock reached to catch him. Moriarty's gun stopped him and John crumpled to the floor in a heap. He struggled to keep his eyes open.

 _Don't black out. Don't black out._

"Sorry," Moriarty simpered unapologetically as Sherlock glared at him, frozen in a half crouch. "I may have gotten a _little_ bit hard on him. Makes things more of a challenge. It will be interesting to see just how long he can hold out before blacking out."

"You can't run a rigged experiment and get actual results," Sherlock growled. "Just doesn't work like that."

Moriarty shrugged. "Too bad!" he sang. "I'm gonna do it anyway!"

Then he left the room, locking the door firmly behind him.

Sherlock fell to his knees, rolling John on to his back and shaking him. "John. John! Wake up!"

" 'M awake..." John mumbled, swatting his hands away. " 'M awake."

Sherlock swung him up, carrying him bridal style for a moment before placing him on the couch as carefully as he could. John's head lolled onto the pillows. " 'M okay, Sherlock. Really."

"All be convinced of that when we get out of here," Sherlock said seriously, crouching down beside John and laying two fingers on his pulse point.

"What's he going to do to us?" John asked quietly, eyes still closed and lips barely moving. "I can't imagine he's done."

"No," Sherlock murmured, peering carefully around the room. "No, I don't suppose he is."

A half hour later, Moriarty came back for them. This time he used whips.

This time Sherlock collapsed.

"Whoops," Moriarty said, not looking at all sorry. "I _may_ have gone a little harder on him then strictly necessary for my... purposes." He shrugged. "Even's the scales, I guess."

John helped Sherlock to the couch and gently pulled up his shirt. There were long red welts all over his back. John could feel them on his own back, smarting as they rubbed against his shirt.

"I'm alright, John," Sherlock muttered, his face grey. "I'll be alright."

"Alriiiight, boys!" Moriarty called from a loudspeaker hidden somewhere in the room. John glared at the ceiling, feeling an unusual rage filling his blood, "I'm going to give you 6 hours to sleep. At the end of 6 hours, if you don't wake up, I will take that as being unconscious and promptly kill the other person."

John and Sherlock exchanged glances, both of them perched on the couch, aching.

"Sweat dreeeeeams!" Moriarty sang, and then the room went silent.

John relaxed back on the couch, eyes already closing. Sherlock lay slowly back across the couch, resting his hand in John's lap. John hand fell to his hair, stroking it a little.

"We're going to get out of here," he whispered. "I promise."

Then the room finally spiraled to darkness as John passed out.

 **Author's Note: Okaaaay! Part 2 will be posted tomorrow!**


	8. Blackout pt 2

**Author's Note: Alright, here's the next chapter, as promised!**

 **Anyone else seen episode 3 of Season 2? CRAAAAAZY! BBC sure knows how to ramp up the feels :P**

The blaring sound of an airhorn invaded John's consciousness and woke him up with a start. He jolted upward and groaning, vision spinning. Every part of him ached. Where was he?

There was a heavy warmth resting in his lap, one that breathed and moved and woke up with a similar groaned.

"Sherlock?" John mumbled, rubbing his face. He couldn't seem to remember what happened.

Then he saw a face in the doorway and everything came rushing back. Moriarty had his eyes on his watch, staring at it excitedly. "22 seconds to wake up, Sherlock, or John dies!" he chirped.

Sherlock jolted to his feet, trying to run at Moriarty. Instead he stumbled and fell to the carpet. John could see the red welts from the whip on his lower back when he shirt rode up. He winced.

"You boys ready for the next stage in our experiment?" Moriarty asked. Neither of them answered, but he clapped his hands together anyway. "Oh good, me too! Let's get started right away."

Before he could drag them out again, Sherlock grabbed onto John's shoulders. "Look John, if we don't make it out of here-"

Moriarty dragged him off. "Time for talk later, boys!" he sang. "Off to the torture room, now."

"What kind of medieval trash is this?" John muttered as he was pushed down the corridor. "The 'Torture Room?' "

Moriarty smiled widely and shoved him inside.

That day the torture Moriarty tried was beating. He grabbed a club leaning against the wall and began to viciously slam it into their bodies.

John felt ribs crack more then once. The club was wooden and heavy, and Moriarty was out of breath just hitting them. He took turns- slamming the club into John and then Sherlock, letting them hearing each other scream.

John could barely breath by the time the two of them were tossed back into the "white room."

"We need to get out," John wheezed. "Now. Before one of us breaks."

"Or before Moriarty does," Sherlock muttered. There was sweat dripping down his face and he was cradling one arm to his chest.

"Let me take a look," John ordered, feeling along Sherlock forearm, wrist and elbow for broken bones.

"What's the verdict, doc?" Sherlock asked sarcastically, never one to be fondled over.

"You'll live," John said with a smirk.

Sherlock reached over and tugged his shirt up. John's stomach was a mass of black and blue. John winced, swallowed back the bile in his throat, and tugged his shirt back down. "I'm not going to lie. I'm probably going to need a hospital after this."

Sherlock laughed. Outright laughed, his eyes shut and his face a mixture of pain and humor. "How you can still manage to crack jokes at a time like this never fails to amaze me, John Watson."

John snickered, feeling heavy exhaustion weighing on his mind and trying to shove it back, "Well, at least I do something to amaze you."

Sherlock face sobered up a little and he looked directly into John's eyes. "John... everything you do amazes me."

John swallowed at the intensity of his gaze and rubbed his hands together. "Uh, thanks. You too."

"So!" Sherlock cried, abruptly changing the subject. "How are we getting out of here?"

He began to scan the room, but there wasn't much to go off of. Everything in the room was a pristine white- white couch, white coffee table, white carpet, white bookshelves, white books...

Sherlock frowned in consideration. He was starting to get an idea.

* * *

"Sorry, run this by me again?"

John head was still pounding and he was having trouble breathing. And concentrating.

Sherlock groaned and rubbed his hands through his hair. "Concentrate, John!" he cried. "I'll say it once more. Moriarty always expects me to pull of these crazy schemes and make brilliant plans- which, of course, I do. But what if I tricked him by _not_ doing that? What if I came up with a plan that was too easy? Too stupid? Something he would never expect?"

John rubbed his forehead, "And what, exactly, would that plan be?"

Sherlock grinned maniacally, and pulled a heavy white book off of the bookcase with his good arm. "When Moriarty comes in, we're both going to be gone."

John raised his eyebrow.

"When the door opens it swings inward. I'll stand exactly where it would cover me when Moriarty enters the room. Then as he starts to close the door, I'll use this book and smash it over his head. You'll hide behind the couch, and once he's unconscious we can tie him to the coffee table with your shirt."

"Why does it have to be my shirt?" John complained.

"Because you always wear two and I have to be able to flip up my collar as we walk out," Sherlock answered. "And besides, it's my plan."

"Right." John rolled his eyes. "And if the plan goes sideways?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, it's either try or die. Which would you prefer?"

The sound of footsteps in the corridor stopped John from responding. The two of them exchanged nods and ran to their hiding spots.

"Boooooys..." Moriarty crooned. "Are you ready for stage four?"

He skipped through the door, throwing it wide. Sherlock bit his tongue to keep from groaning as it smacked him in the forehead.

Moriarty frowned, glaring around the room, "Boys? Boys? Don't play hide and seek; it's not very grown up of you."

A soft tapping noise filled the room.

 _One, Two, Three._

Then Sherlock dove from his hiding spot and slammed the book on top of Moriarty's head. Moriarty stumbled backward, yanked out his gun and fired.

" _SHERLOCK!I_ " John bellowed, sprinting out from behind the couch and catching Sherlock before he could crash to the ground.

John turned furious eyes on Moriarty, grabbed the book in Sherlock's hands, and his vision went red.

The book moved on it own, bashing on top of Moriarty's face over and over again until their was blood on the floor and Moriarty's nose looked like a pancake.

"John.." Sherlock groaned. "John, stop! You've done enough."

John sat back, the blood spattered book trembling in his hands. He looked at Moriarty's face, horrified. "What... what did I do?"

"It's alright," Sherlock mumbled. "You did what you had to. Now let's get out of here."

He struggled to his feet and the cried out in pain, falling back to his knees.

"Sherlock!" John cried, fear coursing through him. "Sherlock, where did he shoot you?"

He searched Sherlock's body hurriedly with his eyes. It didn't take very long to figure the bullet wound. Sherlock's entire lower stomach was soaked dark red.

The fear intensified. "We have to get you to a hospital _now_ ," John commanded, wrapping one arm around his neck and joisting Sherlock to his feet. Pain seared his chest as his ribs protested, but John ignored all of it and began to stumble down the hallway.

Their phones were long gone by now. The only chance they had was to get out and find help.

John and Sherlock stumbled down the hall as quickly as they could, leaving a trail of blood behind them on the pristine floor. John jumped at any noise, waiting for one of Moriarty's cronies to come and attack them.

They had just turned a corner and John had spotted the exit when the hallway went completely black.

 _"_ _Intruder Alert. Intruder Alert."_ A robotic voice blared.

John and Sherlock exchanged glances. John nodded and they took off running for the steps.

Before they could reach them the doors blew open. John and Sherlock were tossed back, landing painfully on the floor. John let out a gasp as his vision tilted black for a moment.

"Scotland Yard!" yelled a familiar voice, "Keep your hands up."

"Greg..." John groaned. "Greg, it's just us."

A face appeared over him, "Bloody He-" Lestrade started, but he cut himself off, "What _happened_ to you?"

"Moriarty happened," John groaned. "Sherlock needs a hospital, _now_."

"Sherlock needs a hospital?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Mate, have you seen yourself lately?"

"I'm fine," John protested, rolling onto his side.

All at once pain surged from every direction. His chest felt like it was on fire. He leaned over, retching, and blood splattered onto the floor.

Lestrade's eyes darkened with concern. "We need an ambulance, stat!" he yelled over to his team. "They're both hurt."

Through the haze of pain and delirium in John's brain, he vaguely thought he heard someone calling his name. Then everything, finally, went black.

When John woke up there was the steady, soothing sound of a heart monitor ringing in his ears. It was almost enough to send him back into the spiraling abyss of unconsciousness, but something stopped him.

 _Sherlock_.

John slowly opened his eyes, blinking at the pristine walls of the hospital. There was no one in the room, but through his haze he saw a red, "Call Nurse" button near his bed.

John reached over with a trembling arm and pressed it.

A few minutes later, a young female nurse came hurrying into the room. She smiled when she saw John. "Mr. Watson! I see you're awake. My name is Nurse Addie."

"Hello," John croaked. "My friend- Sherlock Holmes- is he alright?"

"Sherlock Holmes?" Nurse Addie frowned. "I don't know off the top of my head, but I can check. Did he get admitted here?"

"Yes..." John muttered. "If he's alive."

"Oh my." Addie's eyebrows went up. "I see. Well I will check that for you right away. Is there anything else you need?"

"Cup of water would be nice," John said, his eyes already starting to close again. His thirst from a few days before was still there, though it was muted, like everything else.

Now that he thought about it, he wasn't in any pain. He opened his eyes and peeked under his hospital blanket. He didn't have a shirt, and his entire chest was wrapped with white gauze. He must be on pain meds. That would explain the IV in his arm that he had just noticed.

It felt like way too long before Addie came back into the room. She was carrying trey with water and some soft bread resting on it.

"How's Sherlock?" was the first thing out of John's mouth.

Addie smiled. "Your friend is just fine, Mr. Watson," she reported, watching as John's body relaxed and his eyes flicked shut for a moment in relief. "He's regaining the blood that he lost from his injuries and isn't awake yet, but he is stabile and should recover quite nicely."

John felt like a brick had been lifted from his stomach. He eagerly took the water and sipped at it, before practically devouring the bread.

"Do you need anything else?" Nurse Addie asked with a smile.

"Can I go see him?" John asked hopefully. "Sherlock?"

Addie bit her lip. "Mr. Watson, it would be best if you just rested-"

"Please," John begged. "I'll be able to rest when I see he's okay."

Addie sighed. "Give me a moment. I'll get you a wheelchair and I'll bring you to his room."

"You're the best," John breathed, settling back onto his pillows. "I really do appreciate it. Thank you."

Addie smiled, on her way out the door. "No worries at all, Mr. Watson."

She returned about 10 minutes later with a wheelchair. "You're in luck," she said. "You just received your last dose of pain meds. I checked in, and I can take you off your IV."

She began to fiddle with the IV in John's arm and soon was coiling it up for storage. She helped John out of bed and into the wheelchair and the two of them set off down the hall.

John felt a little bit embarrassed being wheeled through a hospital, probably looking a mess and with a blanket around his shoulders to protect him from the cold. He still didn't have a shirt on.

Still, the doctors gave him smiles as he passed and Addie moved quickly, even though she had to push him. It didn't take them long to reach Sherlock's room.

Addie had a bit of trouble with the door and his chair, but a nurse inside Sherlock's room helped her wheel John through. He thanked them both, probably a bit over-profusely, and they left him with Sherlock.

"Buzz if you need anything or want to return to your room," Addie said kindly, following Sherlock's nurse out of the room.

John let out a heavy sigh, leaning his head against the back of the wheelchair, "Hey, Sherlock," he muttered, taking his his friends battered appearance. "Glad to see that you're alright. I was... a bit worried about you."

"A bit?"

John froze, staring down at Sherlock as the consulting detective shifted on the mattress and slowly opened his eyes.

John swallowed. "Right, yes, a bit worried about you."

Sherlock squinted, looked him up and down, and smirked, "Pant legs wrinkled from squeezing- a habit you've developed when your hands shake. Bags under your eyes meaning that you just recently woke up and a fresh bandaid from an IV on your left arm. You woke up and came here immediately. I'd say very worried."

"Don't flatter yourself," John muttered, embarrassed. He quickly moved his hands from his pants and wrapped them around the arms of his wheelchair. "I didn't know if you were alive or not."

"Could have just asked a nurse," Sherlock countered. "But you needed to see for yourself."

"Alright!" John cried, throwing his hands in the air. "Okay, fine. Yes, I was quite worried about you. Last time we were together you got tortured and then shot by our worst enemy, so I think it's reasonable."

Sherlock gave him a smile. He suddenly looked like a normal hospital patient would: tired, sore, and out of it. "Yes, yes, quite reasonable," he murmured, eyelids drooping.

"You should get some rest," John told him. "Your body needs to recover."

"So does yours," Sherlock argued. "And you're still here."

"Yes, well," fatigue set in and John let out a long, soft breath. "As you said, I needed to see for myself that you were alright."

"Of course I'm alright," Sherlock breathed. "I'm always alright."

"Not when you're bleeding out on the floor," John disagreed. "Or when you've just gotten whipped within and inch of your life."

"Consciousness."

"Come again?"

"Within an inch of my consciousness," Sherlock elaborated. "It was never Moriarty's plan for one of us to die without the other one loosing consciousness."

"That the only reason you're not loosing your mind with worry at my bedside?" John joked, grinning. "Because, see, I don't really care that Moriarty didn't want us to die without completing his "experiment." He still had absolutely no regard for either of our lives. Which," he sobered up. "Is why you're here. That bullet could have hit something major, Sherlock. A lung, or your stomach... or your heart."

Sherlock swallowed and looked down.

"When that gunshot wen off..." John sighed, rubbing his face. "I could have killed Moriarty. Right there, in the middle of the living room. And I wouldn't have even cared."

There was a long silence. Then Sherlock said softly, "When he electrocuted you... the first torture, on that table... I felt the same way. I've never had a problem with controlling my emotions but I would have thrown myself out of a window before hearing you scream like that again."

John shut his eyes, groped for Sherlock's hand, and squeezed it tightly.

Sherlock let out a sudden laugh. "What is wrong with us? We're alive! We're fine! Mycroft's paying for our hospital bills!"

John frowned and opened his eyes. "He is?"

Sherlock smirked. "Well... his credit card is."

John planted his head in his hands and laughed.

 **Author's Note: I'm such a weird person. Johnlock is my all time favorite ship (right now), but still the only drabble I've written where they kissed is my** ** _Mishaps with Mistletoe_** **chapter (go check it out if you haven't already :)**.


	9. Feverish

**Author's Note: HEEEY, I had to do a sickfic. You know how it is :)**

 **Also: To the guest who gave me that prompt (THANK YOU, by the way, I love prompts!), this isn't exactly what you asked for but I wrote it before you gave me the prompt... so I suppose that's only reasonable, right? :D**

 **There will most likely be another one that better follows your prompt, though. Sickfics are my jam :)**

Sherlock woke up feeling heavy and stiff. He threw on his usual coat, slowly tugged on his pants and walked with dragging feet towards the kitchen.

"Morning, Sherlock," John greeted. He had already started his perusal of the morning paper and had one hand wrapped around a cup of tea.

Sherlock sniffed, coughed, and shuffled into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, stared at the contents more a moment, and then shut it without getting anything out. "Morning."

John raised his eyebrow, his lips twitching.

"What?" Sherlock grumbled, his voice rough. "What are you laughing at?"

John hurriedly tried to wipe the smirk off his face. "I honestly never thought I would hear Sherlock Holmes with a stuffy noise."

Sherlock huffed, surprised that John wasn't being more overbearing. He had thought that if he so much as coughed John would be worried about plague. Okay so maybe that was a bit much but still.

"Don't be ridiculous. I just have something lodged in my nasal passage."

"Right," John agreed, turning back to his paper. "Well, maybe you should get some rest and we can stay in for the day."

"Rest?" Sherlock scoffed, even as his body groaned for the softness and warmth of his bed. "Pah. _Boring_. I want a case. A hard one."

"Actually, Lestrade sent me a message. He's got a new crime scene for you to look over," John fished in his dressing gown pocket for his phone and found the message. "Its a few blocks from here. Something with a mixed up heir and murder over a will... sounds like your kind of case. Shall I text him to tell him we'll be there in a few minutes?"

All Sherlock wanted to do was curl up on the couch with some tea and watch that strange, illogical show about a man in a blue box that also happened to be a time-traveling spaceship. But now he had started down the not-sick route, and he was going to keep on it. "Right, yes, tell him we'll be there."

"Alrights" John nodded, texting back a quick reply. "I'll just get dressed and we can be off. Might want to take a cab; looks a bit chilly out there."

Sherlock winced, turned up the collar on his coat, and started for the door.

 **linebreaker**

John and Sherlock joined Lestrade and a few other detectives in standing around a dead body in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Shot to death," Lestrade reported, nodding at the body. "One to the forehead and other places around the body. Don't know which one killed him for sure, but I figured that's where you come in."

He looked to Sherlock, who hadn't actually realized he had been speaking at all.

He felt suddenly very strange. There was the feeling of blood rushing to his head like when you stand up too fast. His hands wouldn't stop shaking and his legs were trembling so hard he was almost forced to sit down.

Everything was too warm. His scarf, pressed into his neck, was smothering. His coat needed to come off in the next few seconds or he might explode. Sherlock wasn't the kind of person that panicked but he was panicking now, because he felt like a bloody furnace. He struggled with his layers for a moment, trying to rip them off and getting tangled in the sleeves and buttons.

"Sherlock?"

A rough, blessedly cold hand gripped his half-bare shoulder. Sherlock ached for more of the cold. He swayed on his feet.

"Whoa, easy there."

That was John. That had to be John. Only John would be brave enough to grasp both of Sherlock's shoulders, steadying him. Only John would know the exact right way to brush his curls out of his red, overheated face and feel at his forehead. And there was that amazing cold hand again.

"Is he alright?" Lestrade asked through the fog in Sherlock's head. Lights and colors were blurring into a single, amorphous blob, one where John's face was the only thing clear enough to recognize.

"He's running a fever," John reported, and the cool hand moved away. Sherlock whimpered. "I didn't realize he was this sick when we left the flat. I should have made him stay home."

He sounded guilty. Sherlock blinked heavily, trying to clear his head. "W'sn't... your... f'lt..." he mumbled inaudibly.

"Come on, Sherlock, let's get you home," John whispered, and then they were suddenly moving.

Sherlock's legs were leaden. He tripped on his own shoes and John wrapped an arm around his waist, keeping him upright.

"Better get home quick," John commented, keeping up a stream of words as he lead Sherlock down the street as quickly as he could. "People will talk if they see me walking with my arm around your waist."

The humor registered in Sherlock's brain a couple moments later and he snorted with laughter.

Something caught in his throat and he hunched over, coughing. John stopped walking and gripped his shoulder's again. "You alright? Not going to throw up, are you?"

"No..." Sherlock wheezed, the world spinning. "I think... no..."

"Okay, okay." John helped his straighten and started to move a little faster. "We gotta get you out of this cold. I have some medicine in the flat that can lower your fever."

"Doctor Who," Sherlock mumbled.

"What's that?"

"We... we should watch Doctor Who."

As the two of them finally reached the door of 221b, John smiled. "Yeah. That'd be nice."

 **Author's Note: Okay, so I was actually going to make this longer but then I thought this would be a good place to end it. I mean I'm sure you guys** ** _always_** **want longer chapters but still...**

 **(naw, you guys never really complain about that :) I'm just overly sensitive)**


	10. The Empty Pub (Empty Hearse Spoilers)

**Author's Note: I bet you guys are super shocked I'm not writing a The Reichenbach Fall fix-it. I might be later. I just honestly think it's because I watched The Empty Hearse (AKA basically a fix-it for Sherlock's death because it's the next episode) the night after. So not only did I not really have time to write a fix-it but it also got resolved super quick.**

 **That being said I might still write one if you guys want me to.**

 **This is written in a world where Mary doesn't exist. From what I've seen of her so far I actually really like Mary but it just works better if John isn't proposing, ya know?**

Alone in a rundown pub isn't where John Watson expected himself to be on the two year anniversary of Sherlock's death.

He would have expected that he would have moved on. Maybe visited Sherlock's grave and switched out the flowers, said a few words. He would have thought that he would have a girlfriend, have restarted his life, maybe even be gone from London entirely.

It hadn't worked out like that. He still lived in 221b. He had tea with Mrs. Hudson nearly every other afternoon and he hadn't gone on a single date in two years. That morning he had brought fresh flowers to Sherlock's grave at sat there with his hand on the tombstone, eyes closed, for nearly an hour. It had only been the chill wind and the sound of soft voices from another part of the graveyard that had pulled him out of his own head and back into the land of the living.

After Sherlock's death, John hadn't slept for a week. Every time he shut his eyes he experienced the same moment, looping over and over behind his eyes.

Sherlock, perched on the ledge of St. Bards. His voice in John's ear, saying goodbye. Arms windmilling as he tumbled from the roof, body soaring like in slow motion until he landed on the pavement.

John was glad he hadn't heard the sound of his friend's body hitting the ground. He was sure that it was something he would never be able to get out of his head.

He had run towards Sherlock's prone form, had been hit by a bicycle. Everything was blurred and fuzzy after that. Struggling to his feet. Pushing through the throng of people surrounding Sherlock's. His head spinning at the sight of the blood across Sherlock's white face.

 _"_ _Let me through,"_ he had gasped, straining to get at Sherlock's side, _"I'm a doctor. Please, let me through. Please! He's my friend- please. He's my friend."_

After Sherlock's body had been taken away, things got even fuzzier. He had been in shock, shaking all over as he stumbled back to 221b and told Mrs. Hudson, "He's... dead."

She had burst into tears, burying her face into his jumper. John hadn't cried. He was unable to cry for days.

He wanted to cry. He wanted the physical feeling of grief; the tangibility of tears and his entire body jerking from sobs. He wanted to release the terrible weight pressing down on his chest, making him feel sick.

It had taken Mrs. Hudson nearly eight days to get him to eat something. He was wasting away inside 221b. He had lost 9 pounds and could barely stand on his own.

Mrs. Hudson had found him on the couch, half conscious. She regarded him sternly but gently, placing her hand on his cheek, "John Watson. Look at yourself. Do you really think this is what Sherlock would have wanted? For you to wallow in misery on the couch, wasting away?"

She nursed him back to health in time for the funeral. It was a closed casket funeral, thank _God_. There were only a few people there- Sherlock's parents, for one, were nowhere to be found. Mycroft shed a few obviously fake tears and left as soon as the casket was in the grave.

Lestrade and Molly stayed to pay their respects. Molly left with a hug to John and a kiss on Mrs. Hudson's cheek, making them both promise to call her if they needed anything at all.

John was the last one at the grave. The memory of the things he had said still rang in his ears.

 _"_ _Give me a miracle, Sherlock. One last miracle- just for me. Don't be- don't be dead. Just please, don't be dead."_

Two years later he was still wishing for that one miracle to come true.

And that's where he found himself now, sitting with a beer in a nearly empty pub. There was the bartender behind the counter and a few enormous, already drunk men. The rest of the pub was completely empty.

The door creaked open, blowing icy air into the pub. A figure in a dark cloaked coat swept inside and swirled to the bar. John barely glanced at him. The person's flair for dramatics reminded him painfully of Sherlock. He could almost see him now: dark curls flying, coat billowing, demanding a drink and then somehow finding an excuse to to smash on the ground.

The thought was bittersweet. John smothered it with another large gulp of beer.

He thought back to the first time he had cried after Sherlock's death. It had been a few days after the funeral, and John had been fixing things up around the flat. He couldn't bare to leave. There were too many memories imbedded everywhere, but at the same time leaving would be like he was moving on, and he wasn't. Not yet.

He had made himself some tea, and was reaching into the fridge for something to cool down the boiling water in his mug.

There was no milk.

John had turned away from the fridge, eyes already rolling in amused annoyance the the remark of, _"Sherlock, it was your turn to buy milk 20 turns ago,"_ starting out of his mouth.

His voice had caught on the word Sherlock, and the mug thunked to the table. John fell into a chair, shaking all over as waves of grief flooded him, smashing into his brain over and over again.

He couldn't breath.

It was Molly Hooper that found him that way; hunched over in a chair, sobbing so hard no sound was even coming out. She had dropped the bag of groceries she had bought to help out and rushed over to his side.

"John! Oh, John, it's going to be alright," Molly pulled him into her arms, rubbing his back soothingly with her small, soft hands.

She had stayed overnight that night, making him dinner and dusting, making sure he was okay even as he insisted that she should go home. He couldn't imagine that Sherlock's death was exactly easy on her- she was so head over heels for him that it must hurt like a knife to the stomach.

That's a bit how John felt. Except it was twenty knifes, not just one.

John remembered the raw grief he had felt, sitting there in the nearly empty bar. It was still there, just not as harsh. More of an ache then a sting now, on most days.

This wasn't most days. This marked the two years since John had last seen Sherlock alive. It marked two years since he had heard his voice and seen his grin. It marked two years since John's world came tumbling down.

John tried to smother the emotions in anther chug of beer but it wasn't any use. He set down his mug and buried his face in his hands, gasping for air. No one would be there to see him cry. The bartended was absorbed with his phone, and the large majority of the big-male group in the corner was passed out on the table. That left only the man who had reminded him of Sherlock to-

"Alright, mate?"

John looked up, eyes red rimmed.

He shot up, out of his chair, his heart skipping an entire beat. Then his legs gave out and he quickly sat back down.

"How is this- no," John choked on his words, choked on the air in his lungs, choked on the emotion spilling out of him and filling his mind with a jumble of words, "No. No, you're dead. I saw you die. _Two years ago I saw you die_!"

The bartender glanced up from his phone, shrugged, and lost interest in the conversation.

Sherlock Holmes slowly nodded, "Yes, that's right. You saw exactly what you were supposed to see."

"No," John repeated, his voice stretching the like string of an over-tuned guitar chord, "No, that's impossible. I was there. You jumped- you- you-"

The string snapped.

For a moment, everything turned to white noise and blurred colors.

Then John Watson crumpled back from his stool in a dead faint.

 **linebreaker**

When John woke up, he was back at 221b. There was a cup of water to his left, along with a slumped form in a chair beside the bed. He blinked, sight still blurry and head fuzzy.

Then everything came crashing back and John let out a gasp. He jolted upright, startling the person in the chair so badly they nearly fell out.

"Sherlock," John choked out, reaching blindly foreword, "That was real- that was- you're alive-"

"Don't pass out again!" Sherlock squeaked quickly as John's head spun, "Yes, yes, I'm alive. Surprise!"

John punched him in the face.

"You stupid git!" he bellowed, struggling to get out of bed, "How could you do that to me? How could you just leave and expect me to move on? I nearly _killed myself_ over you, Sherlock. You're death _destroyed me_."

Sherlock caught his wrists before John could hit him again, his head bowed and blood dripping from his nose, "I am... I am so sorry-"

" _Don't_ ," John shuddered, "Don't say sorry. Just- Just let me-"

He reached foreword, grabbing Sherlock by the shoulders. Sherlock tensed and shut his eyes, expecting another blow.

Instead, John hugged him so tightly he thought his ribs might crack. Sherlock buried his face in John's shoulder, breathing him in after so long of not having this. Not having him.

John tightened his grip around Sherlock's back, fingers digging into his shirt. His entire body was trembling, face wet with tears. He wasn't sure when the last time was he had shown this much emotion. Probably that morning when Molly had found him in the kitchen, a few days after Sherlock's funeral.

After what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few minutes, John leaned back. His eyes were heavy, thick with dried tears, and he felt exhausted. Sherlock's eyes were red and he quickly swiped at his cheeks before speaking, "You probably- you probably want an explanation-"

"No," John whispered hoarsely, "Just... just don't leave."

Sherlock didn't.

 **Author's Note: I actually pre-wrote that in my head but then I ended up going in a completely different direction with it. Let me know what you thought! (I mean you always do but still :)**


	11. Miracle (The Reichenbach Fall Spoilers)

**Author's Note: OKAAAAY so I kind of wrote this like half a year ago and forgot to post...? Whoops?**

The moment Sherlock fell, John knew it was all over.

Sherlock's arms windmilled and his body fell like a stone unto the pavement and John was _running_ , running like he had never run before.

"SHERLOCK!" he screamed, his mind a mess of emotions and pain like he had never felt in his life. Worse pain then when he had been shot. Then when he had been strapped with bombs and forced to speak as Moriarty. Worse pain then hearing Sherlock say he was a fake.

A bike rammed into his side. John fell, head bouncing off the pavement and sparks flashing in front of his eyes. His ears rang, limbs trembling as he tried to force himself upward. He couldn't stop—he had to get to Sherlock.

John finally managed to get to his feet, stumbling towards Sherlock's body. He pushed through the crowd, Sherlock coming into view.

There was a pool of blood already surrounding his head, streams up it trickling down his face as the paramedics around his body rolled him over. John was held back by one of the bystanders as he tried to go closer but he shook her off, "Please, I'm a doctor. He's my friend- I'm a doctor, please-"

Sherlock's limp body was picked up and placed on a gurney. John felt his legs giving out, "No. Oh _God_ no."

Somebody had their hands on his arms, asking him if he was alright. He waved them off. He wasn't alright. He might never be alright again.

Sherlock's body was wheeled away. As soon as it disappeared from sight John was violently sick in the bushes. Another person had their arm around him, leading him away from the stain of blood on the sideway.

"Do you want me to call a cab?" the person asked, their voice somehow making through the haze in John's head.

John nodded slowly, everything numb.

He barely remembered getting into the cab. The only place he could think to go was Baker Street. It was his home, and... and Mrs. Hudson deserved to hear the news from him, not the papers.

By the time he stumbled into 221b, she was already there. Someone must have told her, Mycroft, maybe, because she led John into the kitchen with tears in her eyes and made them both some tea.

They didn't speak, but John felt some of his nerves beginning to calm as he drank his tea. The panic was replaced by something worse, something cold. Something dark. Something that made him want to tear the heart out of anyone who had driven Sherlock to such pain that he had taken his own life.

The rest of the week passed in a blur. People visited the flat, portraying their condolences to Mrs. Hudson and John with food and hugs. Molly came by a couple of times, there to sit with John and rub his back when he cried. He could only imagine how this was for her—She had been in love with Sherlock for years before John even knew him. But she held onto her feelings well, only breaking down a few times when John did.

She drove him and Mrs. Hudson to Sherlock's funeral, standing with them at the casket and holding Mrs. Hudson's hand when she began to tremble violently. This hadn't been at all easy on her—Sherlock was the closest thing she had ever had to a son.

After the funeral, people filtered away until it was only John at the grave. He wasn't good a speaking to gravestones. Never had been. Whenever a fellow in the army had died John would kneel by the grave with his hand on the tomb in silence, paying his respects.

With Sherlock, that just didn't seem right.

"Well," he started, voice trembling just a little, "You... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Um... there were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: You were the best man, and the most human... uh, human being, that I've ever know and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. So. There."

He wasn't good at this. His voice started cracking in all the wrong places and he could feel his throat tightening in an uncomfortable way.

John walked foreword and awkwardly laid his hand on the grave, the stone smooth and dark and new under his fingertips, "I was... so alone. And I owe you so much."

He started to walk away and then stopped. Turned.

"There's just one more thing," he said, "One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock. For me. Don't. Be. Dead," he voice splintered horrible on the last word and he started at the sky for a moment, regaining control of his emotions, "Would you do that? Just for me? Just stop it. Stop this-"

He broke off again, tears welling against his control. John heaved out a few deep breaths, hand over his face.

Then it dropped and he straightened like the solider that was still deep inside of him. He nodded once, and turned, striding away.

Later that evening, when he was slumped in his chair at 221b, Mrs. Hudson knocked lightly on the door.

"John?" she asked, pocking her head inside. There were dark bags under her eyes and it looked like she had been crying, but she offered him a small smile, "Letter came for you today."

"Who's it from?" John asked automatically, reaching listlessly for the envelope.

' "I don't know," Mrs. Hudson admitted, "Didn't say."

John opened the envelope and pulled out a single piece of paper.

 _For: John Watson_

 _A Miracle._

 _SH_

 _(oh and do tell Mrs. Hudson. I can't stand seeing her cry- she looks like a drowned cat)_

 **Author's Note: Was that any good? Should I have gone longer? LET ME KNOW!**

 **I just love Sherlock so much. I mean I know I've said that at least 100.6 times but still.**


	12. Deja Vu

**Author's Note: Not a cannon divergent, but it** ** _does_** **take place after The Reichenbach Fall, with some** ** _MINOR SPOILERS_** **.**

 **Oh, and this has a happy ending. I promise :)**

"Sherlock Holmes."

The two words were spoken by a man with an exceeding large mustache and a rather prominent nose who had a gun pressed to Sherlock's head.

"Yes, that's me," Sherlock said. Instead of being alarmed or worried by the gun, he sounded rather bored, "Which, of course, you already knew, so could you please get on with what you're doing so I can go home and John can catch the latest installment of Jeopardy?"

John smirked.

If the man heard Sherlock, he didn't act like he had, "Sherlock Holmes," he said again, even more slowly then before. His mustache wiggled like a small dead animal on his upper lip, and John took a moment to wonder if his own facial hair had looked that bad or if the man was just unlucky.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and was about to speak again, but this time Mustache-Man continued.

"You have been a constant thorn in my side. You have caused me annoyance and pain and inconvenience, and now it is my turn to do it to you."

"How, exactly, are you going to do that?" Sherlock asked, lazily inspecting his nails for dirt. John rolled his eyes. Ever the flair for thematic dramatics.

"By killing the one person you care most about in the world," Mustache-Man said, as calmly as if he was saying he was going out to get the milk.

Sherlock no longer looked like he was bored by the conversation. He looked angry. Threats on John's life tended to do that to him.

John, on the other hand, was more then a little unnerved. Mustache-Man may not have had a sense of what looked attractive on a man's face, but he _was_ the person holding the gun.

"John Watson," Mustache-Man continued, looking at John for one of the first times that evening, "Please step up on that ledge."

John turned around. They were on a rooftop, and a few feet away was the small ledge marking the edge of the building. He didn't move.

"STEP ON THE LEDGE!" Mustache-Man bellowed, jabbing his gun harder in the Sherlock's head, "Or I pull the trigger."

John hurriedly stepped up on the ledge. He glanced down, taking stock of what was below him. The ground shifted dizzyingly and he hurriedly looked away.

Mustache-Man slowly reached into his pocket, and out came another gun. This one he pointed at John, "Alright. If you don't jump in three seconds then I'll shoot you both. One-"

"John, don't," Sherlock said, looking panicked.

"Two-"

John took a deep breath, nodded at him.

"Three!"

John leapt off the ledge.

A scream ripped itself from Sherlock's throat, "JOHN!"

Suddenly, everything was red. He gripped Mustache-Man's wrists, forcing him to drop both of his guns, and began to punch him over and over until both his face and Sherlock's hands were a mess off blood.

Then he staggered to his feet and grabbed one of the guns.

His finger trembled on the trigger, but suddenly there was a voice in his head.

 _"_ _Don't do it, Sherlock. It's not worth it."_

John. John, in his head. John, who _kept him right_.

He crumpled to his knees, gun clattering out of his hand, and suddenly his whole brain was a mess of emotions.

He finally understood what John had gone through when he plunged off St. Bart's and faked his death. He finally understood why two years had felt like an eternity. He finally understood why John couldn't go back to his old life at 221b, why he had moved on, why he had been so furious when Sherlock finally _did_ come back.

He understood everything and it _hurt_.

After what felt like hours, Sherlock got to his feet. He texted Lestrade with numb fingers, telling him there was a gunman on the roof of the building he was on. Then he made his slow way down to the street.

He should head home and tell Mrs. Hudson what had happened. Then he would find his hidden store of drugs; lock himself in his room. He honestly didn't care anymore. He just wanted all the pain to go away.

Someone stepped in front of his path and Sherlock looked up, annoyed.

Then he let out a gasp, " _John?!_ "

"Hello," John said, grinning, "Glad to see me?"

 **linebreaker**

"Three-"

"John, don't do it," Sherlock said, his face a mess of fear.

"Two-"

John nodded, glancing one more time to make sure he had seen what was below him correctly.

"Three!"

John leapt off the ledge. As he heard Sherlock's pained scream he grabbed onto a windowsill with both hands and held on as tightly as he could.

His bad shoulder protested at the jolt but John only tightened his grip. Falling from this height would definitely kill him.

He spotted the ledge of a balcony below him and carefully slid towards it. He would have to fall down and slightly to the right. If he missed he would either get impaled by one of the metal fences around the balcony or hit pavement.

Taking a deep breath, John dropped.

He landed with a thud of the floor of the balcony. John's knees gave out at the impact and he grabbed the wall for support, letting out a relieved breath of air.

He had no idea if Mustache-Man was going to come looking to see if he had actually died. He had to move fast.

John pounded on the door in front of him. It wasn't long before an older woman came to it. Her eyes widened as she saw John and she reached for her phone.

"Wait!" he cried, "Please, wait, there's a man trying to kill me, I just need to get to the street."

A couple minutes later he had made it through the whole apartment complex and was running down the street, looking for a good place to hide.

He slid into an alleyway and caught his breath, hoping that Sherlock had made it out okay.

 _Sherlock_.

He probably thought John was dead.

For a second, John felt an immense feeling of power. The way Sherlock felt, his emotions, everything was in John's control. John could put him through the exactly situation that Sherlock had put _him_ through, just a few months ago. He could make him feel that same pain, make him understand why it had broken John so completely.

John shook himself. His thoughts were making him sick. He would _never_ intentionally do that to Sherlock, because Sherlock had "killed" himself to protect him, not to hurt him.

John peeked around the corner, glancing up at the building he had dropped from. The rooftop seemed to be empty. He let out a breath. Hopefully Sherlock had made it out okay.

Checking the street quickly, John stepped out from the alleyway and began to hurry back the way he had came. It wasn't long before Sherlock came into view.

He looked a mess. There was blood spattered on his shirt and caked on his hands (the sight made John's heart rate speed up, but he didn't think the blood was Sherlock's own), and his face was drawn and tense. John hurried foreword, stepping in front of his friends path.

Sherlock glanced up, his eyes haunted, glaring at the object that had gotten in his way. Then his cheeks paled drastically, turning from already white to a sickly shade of grey, and he let out a choked, " _John_?!"

John grinned, watching the transformation of his face. He could imagine being in Sherlock's shoes, being able to grant the people you loved the miracle of "coming back from the dead" after two years of it being seeming hopeless. It was an incredible feeling, and John said the only thing that came to mind:

"Glad to see me?"

Sherlock stared at him, open mouthed. "But you... you jumped..."

"Oh come on Sherlock, for such a genius you really can be blind," John huffed. "For one, do you think I would go and die without doing anything other then nod at you? And for two, did you see a body when you got down to the street?"

Sherlock blinked a few times, some color returning to his face. "I, well, no, I suppose I didn't. But I wasn't really paying attention."

His brow furrowed and he suddenly stepped foreword, awkwardly hugging John. John squeezed him back, tightly, smiling into his shoulder. This was the hug that they hadn't gotten after Sherlock came back from the dead, the hug that should have replaced the amount of physical hurt that John had inflicted on Sherlock instead.

Sherlock gulped, burrowing his fingers into John's shoulders and pressing his face into the other man's hair. It felt good to hug him like this, feel the very-alive, very-okay John in his arms with his hands at his back.

"Are you alright?" John asked after a long moment. He pulled back, reluctantly, and tugged at Sherlock's hand until the detective let him inspect it. "What did you do?"

"I punched... him," Sherlock muttered, looking away. "A lot."

John raised his eyebrow. "Is he...?"

"No," Sherlock said, even quieter. He looked John in the eye. "I came close to killing him but... You told me not to."

John frowned.

"I mean, your voice in my head told me not to," Sherlock elaborated hastily.

John smiled, feeling pleased. "My voice is in your head? Telling you not to do stuff?"

Sherlock shifted awkwardly. "Uh, yes. Yes, quite a bit, actually. And, uh, telling me _to_ do stuff, too. Like, get the milk. Or put away the dangerous chemicals before Mrs. Hudson sees them and has a fit. Or to remember to wish Molly happy birthday. I like to think of it as you being the better part of my consciousness-"

Sherlock broke off and grunted as John abruptly leaned up and kissed him. He shut his eyes quickly, trying to remember and catalogue every single sensation of kissing John into his mind palace with utmost detail for later, but it wasn't long before John-John-John-John-John was the only thing in his head and it felt as though his brain was melting.

He gripped John's shoulders, fisting his skin-warmed shirt beneath his fingertips and sighing contentedly. If he could stop time in this one, single moment, he would. He would relive it over and over until he knew every single second and detail and aspect of it. The warmth of the sun on the top of his head. John's knee lightly brushing his own. John's fingers at the nape of his neck, absentmindedly playing with his hair as his mouth did so many, many amazing things to Sherlock's brain.

Finally, both of them needed air and John pulled back, gasping a little.

"Well then," he murmured, eyes crinkling with his smile as he stared up at Sherlock.

"Well then," Sherlock said back, voice rough. "That was... quite nice."

John laughed, forehead falling onto Sherlock's shoulder. "Well, you know, you can thank yourself."

"Can I?"

"Yeah." He pulled back. Grinned. "Your voice in my head told me to do it."

 **Author's Note: Ha, I just absentmindedly put a computer-smiley-face-emoji onto the end of that sentence XD I had to delete that.**

 **This is the... second time I have written a Johnlock kiss. Geez, only took me 12 chapters XD**


	13. Break and Collapse (Last Vow spoilers)

**Author's Note: This was written after I watched His Last Vow.**

 **Actually. Let's be real. It started being written immediately after I watched the scene this is based off. My mind started buzzing and creating immediately. And then I smushed it because I really liked that episode and I kind of needed to focus :)**

 **This is a spin off of the scene when Sherlock collapses in 221b.**

A silence filled the room as Mary finished speaking.

Her USB was lying in John's hand. He was imagining it, of course, but it felt like it was burning him. It scalded his hand, heavy and hot like a dangerous secret. John supposed it was.

"I think..." John paused, his voice catching with the tears stuck in his throat and welling in his eyes, "I think you should leave."

"John-" Sherlock started, seeming like he was going to protest.

John held up his hand, "Just- I need time."

Mary stood slowly, keeping her eyes on him, "I respect that," she said in the quietest, saddest voice he had ever heard her use, "I really am sorry, John."

She got up and and slowly crossed the threshold of the door.

"John-" Sherlock gasped.

John quickly looked over and jolted out of his chair, "Sherlock!"

He had risen sharply to his feet and his face and got a deathly pale, "I- I think- Morphine... I need morphine..."

"I'm calling the hospital," John told him, scrabbling for his phone, "And I swear Sherlock, if you try to escape again I will make it my personal job to make sure that even a hospital won't be able to help you."

Sherlock either groaned or laughed, John couldn't tell. But then he grasped at John's phone and pulled it out of his hand, "I already- I already called them. They're-"

His knees buckled at the same moment the door burst open and a few paramedics rushed in.

" _Did you bring morphine_?!" Sherlock demanded, gripping John's upper arms to keep him upright.

The men exchanged looks, "I thought there was a shooting," one of them said awkwardly.

"There was," Sherlock muttered impatiently, "Last week," he hunched, groaning, "And now I am experiencing severe internal bleeding and my pulse is elevated and you may have to restart my heart-!"

He broke off with a gasp and stumbled against John. His flatmate hurriedly tightened his grip to keep both of them upright. The paramedics rushed over and helped John in lowering Sherlock to the floor. "It's alright," he murmured. "You're going to be okay."

One of the paramedics ran back downstairs for a stretcher. In the long moment when there was quiet except for the other two paramedics working around Sherlock, the consulting detective locked eyes with John.

"Are you okay?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

John swallowed, "Yeah, fine. I'm... I'm fine. I mean- it's hurts but... I'll be fine. You just... you just take care of you. Don't worry about me"

"I'm always worried about you," Sherlock said softly, "Especially tonight."

"Sir, we're going to load you onto the stretcher. Please try not to move too much," the older paramedic interrupted.

John glanced up and took a few steps back to give the doctors room. They carefully loaded Sherlock's limp body unto a stretcher and began to hurry him down the stairs.

"John!" Sherlock yelled, "You're coming!"

"Okay, okay, I'm on my way," John said agreeably, scrambling to his feet and rushing after the paramedics.

He followed them to the hospital in a taxi, fidgeting with his hands in his lap and wishing that the cab driver wasn't quite so chatty. He didn't want to talk about Sherlock's "situation", and " _No it wasn't his boyfriend for goodness sakes he was married_."

That made him think of Mary, but he quickly pushed her out of his head. Tonight he only had room to worry about one person he loved, and he chose Sherlock.

As if he didn't always choose Sherlock.

John rushed to the front desk once he reached the hospital and payed the cabbie, "Sherlock- Holmes-" he panted, hands flat on the desk, "I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes."

The receptionist looked mildly alarmed. He probably looked maniac, "Um, hang on, let me take a look."

John drummed his fingers anxiously as the receptionist searched the computer, "Let's see... I believe he got check into room 203 a couple of minutes ago. But you won't be able to go in yet; he's still be looked at."

"Right, yes, thanks." John was already pushing away from the desk and towards the elevator.

He made it to the waiting room in less the five minutes. As the receptionist had said, he wasn't able to see Sherlock, so he sank into one of the chairs in the hallway. They were an unfortunate color of sickly-green thread, with orange and maroon strands interwoven into the cushion. Not particularly eye-pleasing.

John leaned back, head just barely touching the window sill behind him. The cold air from the window made him shiver. Actually, he just felt cold all over. John realized he was most likely from shock, either from his wife's admission to almost killing his best friend, or Sherlock's collapse in the middle of 221b, or basically just anything that had happened over the past couple of hours.

John shut his eyes. All he wanted was to go home and sleep, but not only could he not leave Sherlock, he wasn't sure where home was anymore.

Stupid question. Home was where it had always been. Home was at 221b, with Sherlock, in his comfortable chair by the fire, tea in one hand and Mrs. Hudson bustling around her flat below him.

He wanted so badly for Mary to fit into that life. But now that she had shot Sherlock, he felt that everything had changed.

John leaned foreword, burying his face in his hands. He had no idea how long he had been sitting in that horribly-colored chair in the waiting room, thoughts swirling like fluffy snow blown by the wind, when a doctor came out of Sherlock's room.

"Dr. John Watson?" he asked, smiling at John.

John shot to his feet, back straightening with a few cracks. "That's me. Is Sherlock alright?"

The doctor smiled, holding out his hand. "My name is Dr. Harper. Sherlock Holmes will be fine, considering. He took a nasty bullet to his stomach and pushing his body the way he did certainly didn't help his case. He certainly has a will to live, though."

"Right, yes," John nodded. "Yes, he does."

Dr. Harper gave him another smile. "He was asking for you. Normally I wouldn't let people into a visiting room this soon after admission, but Mr. Holmes convinced me that he wouldn't sleep until he saw you. Go ahead in."

"Right," John said again. "Thanks."

He slipped past Dr. Harper and into Sherlock's room. It was a single (thank goodness for anyone who would have otherwise been forced to share a room with him), and Sherlock seemed to be asleep.

John smiled slightly. Maybe, against his wishes, Sherlock's body had gotten the better of him.

But then John's flatmate groaned and shifted a little on the bed, opening his eyes blearily and blinking at John.

"Hey," John said softly, pulling up a chair and sitting down beside his friend. "How are you feeling?"

"Very... morphine-d," Sherlock mumbled, fingers twitching against the sheets.

John reached over and gently took hold of his hand. "But otherwise? You're okay?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, smiling vaguely. His mind didn't seem to be all there at the moment, most likely because of the drugs. "Actually... my stomach itches a bit."

John snickered, and it wasn't long before both of them were laughing like idiots, gasping for breath and gripping onto each other hands for dear life, as if it would keep them grounded.

John finally leaned back, wiping tears from his eyes, a grin still stretched across his face.

"Feeling a bit better?" Sherlock asked, inspecting him.

"Hmm?"

"A good laugh always releases just the right amount of endorphins that it can relieve stress. It seemed that you were rather stressed when you came into my room, so I made sure to say something funny."

John raised his eyebrow. "You can control whether or not your funny? Then why aren't you all the time?"

Sherlock shrugged, smirking a bit. "Dull."

John rolled his eyes, laughing softly again. "Well, anyway, thank you," he said. "That did, actually, help quite a bit."

Sherlock stared at him, eyes dark. "Good," he said softly. "Because if anyone deserves to laugh, John Watson, it's you."

 **Author's Note: :) I love my OTP. I literally can't get enough of them.**


	14. Rising Water (Final Problem Spoilers)

**Author's Note: Did anyone else notice the plot hole of Sherlock not being at all wet at the end of the episode, after he saved John? He threw John the rope but must have gone down there, too- John was chained to the wall. I've taken it upon myself to write that scene, as you can probably guess :)**

The audio echoing in the well John was in had been quiet for a long time. He hadn't stopped yelling for Sherlock, though his voice was getting hoarser and weaker as he was forced to use his energy for other things.

Things like clinging to the slippery side of the well and keeping his head above the water as it rose higher and higher.

His fingers cramped and John's grip slipped. He slid under the churning water for a second, letting his limbs relax. The world went quiet, murky and muffled in the depths. Hopelessness slammed into him like a truck and John squeezed his eyes shut.

Where was Sherlock? His best friend had saved him dozen's of times. From kidnapping, from gunpoint, from psychopaths... from himself. Where was he now?

Desperately needing air, John pushed himself back up to the surface. The chain attached to his leg went taught. John felt a flash of panic. He didn't have much more time.

"Sherlock!" he bellowed, arms trembling with effort as he griped the side of the well. "SHERLOCK! WHERE ARE YOU?!"

There was a soft splash. John blinked as water sprayed in his eyes. It was a rope.

Another, larger splash sent a wave in John's face. Water gushed into his mouth and nose and John sank, flailing and coughing.

Arms secured around his waist, heaving him upward. John's leg pulled as the chain went tight, but his face was still able to break the surface.

He gasped for breath, coughing and spluttering. A gigantic sneeze forced itself out of him, somewhat relieving the uncomfortable feeling of water up his nose. His throat ached.

"Bless you," a familiar, deep British baritone said. John could feel Sherlock chuckling slightly.

"Thanks," John panted, wet head lolling onto Sherlock's shirt, grip tightening around his shoulders. "Wasn't sure if you were coming."

"Of course I was coming," Sherlock grumbled. His hands moved up John's back a little in what could have been a hug. "I just had to find a rope."

"Right," John wheezed out a laugh. "Right, of course." He shut his eyes, breathed evening out. He was more tired then he had been in a very long time.

"Concentrate for a moment, please," Sherlock commanded. John leaned back, squinting in the dark. Sherlock looked awful and beaten, and like he'd been crying. "I need you to tell me what ankle the chain is on."

"Uh..." John's fuzzy mind took a second to clear. "Uh, right. My right. Your left. But how-?"

Sherlock pulled his hand out of the water, away from John's back, and waved a piece of metal in the air. "Lock picks! Never leave home without them."

He let go of John's waist and dove neatly under the water. John hurriedly grabbed onto the wall again, left to wonder exactly what else Sherlock never left home without.

He felt hands around his ankle and resisted the urge to panic and kick out. It was just Sherlock. His hands fiddled around John's foot, working on the lock.

He struggled upward against the rising water, arms beginning to tremble again. John honestly didn't see how Sherlock could go this long without air. It was probably another one of his strange, hidden talents that he had developed before he met John.

There was a moment of panic as John could no longer go any farther up the wall. His mouth and nose were covered and he thrashed, almost pulling his leg out of it's socket. Desperately tilting his head back at an uncomfortable angle, John sucked in a last breath of air and went under.

He wasn't under for long. John felt the chain's grip suddenly loosen and Sherlock shot out of the water, grabbing John and dragging him with him. Both of them sucked in large mouthfuls of air.

Sherlock definitely hugged John this time, tightly, face buried in the older man's hair. John shut his eyes, letting out a slow breath. "It's okay," he murmured, rubbing his hand across Sherlock's soaked coat. "It's okay."

Sherlock cleared his throat thickly and pulled back. "Do you think you can climb?"

"Huh?"

"The rope." Sherlock nodded at it, and John found he had forgotten it was even there. "Do you think you can climb?"

John took stock. His arms were trembling and he was shivering so hard that his teeth rattled. He shook his head. "I- no. I don't think so."

Sherlock nodded shortly. "Okay. I suspected that. Get on my back."

"What?" John stared at him incredulously. "Sherlock, you can't honestly believe that you're going to be able to carry us both-"

"Get on my back," Sherlock repeated, glaring at him. "Before I loose even more strength."

John hurried to comply, wrapping his aching arms around Sherlock's shoulders as his friend began to climb the rope.

It was slow going. Sherlock used his feet as much as he could but John could feel his body shaking with the strain. John was worried- if Sherlock's arms gave out and they fell and somehow didn't die, they would probably drown. John couldn't see himself being able to hold unto the side of the well for long enough that the water would rise all the way to the top, and he doubted Sherlock could, either.

As they reached the top the well, Sherlock got a last surge of energy. He lifted both he and John over the edge and they collapsed, heaving for breath.

John laid back on the cold, solid ground and shut his eyes. He would be perfectly content to fall asleep right there if he wasn't so bitterly cold.

He felt Sherlock beginning to shift beside him; could feel his friends breath coming in pants and his arms trembling as they the brushed his.

"John?" He heard Sherlock murmur, voice rough from fatigue. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," John breathed out, reached toward Sherlock and grabbing his hand, squeezing it tightly. "How 'bout you?"

"I'm..." Sherlock paused, and John could hear him considering whether to tell the truth or act like everything was fine. "I'm getting there."

It wasn't long before police and paramedics swarmed the premises. They brought Euros away and locked her up in a police car to take back to the city. Sherlock watched her go with his face creased in thought.

"She'll be alright," John said, walking up next to him. A paramedic had given him a heated blanket and it was wrapped around his shoulders, soft and tight.

Sherlock's arm joined it, pressing John into his side.

He didn't need to say anything else.

 **Author's Note: AHHHHH... I wrote this all the way back when I finished the seriesss... then forgot to post, whoops XD**


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